Beauty in Destruction
by agoodtuckering
Summary: Irene always told him that fear was a rather potent aphrodisiac. If only he understood.
1. Prologue

A word.

A whisper.

That was really all she needed.

But to hide in plain sight. Now that, that was a gift. And it was one that he was quite talented at. And so, in time, she would be, too. He would teach her.

He made a lot of promises over those few, albeit short visits. From the moment he saved her, until the moment he found her a new place to live. John never knew. Mycroft never knew. No one suspected a thing. That's what made it so utterly brilliant.

To hide in plain sight is both a gift and a fright.

The worries of being caught. The exhilaration of knowing you could be. The ease of slipping into crowds, of slipping into a new life. The ache of missing the adventure, and not to mention the money and class. Irene missed it all.

And most of all, she missed the status. Being on top. Both literally and figuratively. She _lived_ for it. Ached for it every day. But it was never coming back. She could never go back.

So there was just this. And perhaps one day he would admit that he loved her. It's what kept her going. What kept her on her toes. What kept her from running and running and never looking back. London was her home. Why should she have to leave? After all, Moriarty would never, ever look for her there. She would run, he told himself.


	2. Chapter 1

**_Destruction: (noun) The action or process of causing so much damage to something that it no longer exists or cannot be repaired. / Or to be a cause of someone's ruin. Synonyms: demolition, dismantling, breaking up, ruination; annihilation, wiping out, obliteration, elimination._**

* * *

She awoke to a start. Droopy eyes, heavy from sleepiness, go flitting about the room in a frightened manner. "Are you awake?" Sherlock says, suddenly making his presence rather known. Turning on her side, Irene casts her gaze upward in his general direction. "Now I am," comes her grumpy reply.

"I brought you some lunch," he says, almost as if it's a peace offering for her. He plops a takeaway bag down upon her soft, pillowy mattress before having a seat at her side. "I… was working a case," he starts to say, "and I was in the area. Figured I'd pick something up to eat for myself, and for you."

Her eyes narrow, settling on Sherlock's features once again. As if she's reading his expression, memorizing his countenance and everything about his mood change. "You don't eat during cases," she says, almost stubbornly before tossing back the grey duvet and sheets. She slides away from the comfort of her bed, a dainty but elegant hand reaching for her robe. She slips into the dark, silken fabric before turning back to Sherlock with a rather puzzled expression. "Why did you come by? You're not the type to pop by for a visit, are you? You need a favor."

"I'm—" His words are cut short by a finger to his lips. Her finger, to be precise. "Don't," she says. "Let me just pretend that for a moment you decided to stop by and _see me_ for once. It's a shame you're too early for dinner."

"I'm not hungry," he fires back in a rather indignant tone, even though he's watching her carry the bloody takeaway bag. She's about to leave the room before she turns to gaze at him over a shoulder. "Aren't you?" That's all she says. _It's all she needs to say._

The tension between the two of them has been building as of late. They've been together too much. To a rather unbearable level, honestly. Either she would jump him, or he would take her. It was one of the two. And she didn't care that he was a virgin. She knew what he wanted.

It's with a quiet but heavy sigh that Irene pads her way into the kitchen, takeaway bag held gently between two hands. She flips the kitchen light on, fingers just barely brushing the switch, before making her way over to a wine-rack and looking for something to go with lunch. She already knows what he's gotten. Her favorite: Japanese.

"John doesn't have a clue," Sherlock tells her, his voice raised a bit so she can hear him down the hall. "Even now. He doesn't suspect a thing. And I'm quite pleased to say that he may never know."

She watches as he comes traipsing down the hallway, his dress shoes clicking quietly on the hardwood on the way. It's a nice flat. Not exactly what she's used to, of course, as it's without all the glamour and poshness, but it'll do. She's grown rather fond of the place as of late. Not that she'd ever admit it to the man standing in her kitchen at the moment. He'd never let her hear the end of it.

"That's good," Irene responds finally, her fingers understanding the top on the takeaway box and finally unhinging it. Immediately, the scent of noodles and chicken and a sweet teriyaki sauce fill her kitchen. "Thank you, Sherlock," she adds a moment or so later with a small but grateful smile.

"You _did_ say you were feeling under the weather," he admits suddenly. "I thought a favorite meal of yours might help. And—" He reaches into his pocket for something, digging around for a brief while pulling out a bottle of Tussin cough medicine to plop down atop her round, oaken kitchen table. "This is for you a well. Take it. I spent a half hour in the Chemist's trying to find the right one."

She looks terribly perplexed for a moment before reaching for the tiny blue bottle of cough medicine. "About that favor," she finally says.


	3. Chapter 2

For Sam, her night passed at a painfully dull pace. She left Malcolm's small, cozy flat in quite a state and nearly ran to get a cab and head home. It was quiet — _too quiet_ — and she sat with her phone on her queen-size mattress in front of her for what felt like ages, the television droning quietly in the background.

It was Hell. Pure, honest Hell. She wanted nothing more than to go back in time and rewind the events of the night. She thought, maybe, by telling him how she felt it would soothe his nerves. Apparently that wasn't the case.

He kissed her back — _fervidly._ What made him stop? What made him _want_ to stop?

 _What had she done wrong?_

And why oh why couldn't she get the way his hands had felt out of her fucking head? The way his lips felt on hers? The way he'd moaned as she rolled her hips against his? The desire behind his responses? The perfection of it all? She was _fucked._

When no text messages or no calls came through, she eventually fell asleep atop her duvet and just barely managed to snag the telly remote to turn off whatever horrible news broadcast was buzzing away on the too-small-for-her-liking flat-screen.

For so long, she'd thought about this night. She'd thought about seeing him again, wondering how long his hair would be or if he let his scruff go with a laziness that she'd rarely ever seen from him. She wondered how his arms would feel around her again. How it would _be._

But the reality of it was too terrible for words. He was too thin, too gaunt, still wearing that defeated look that he had been the day they'd parted, excluding the in-between visits in prison. She wanted to be his shelter from the storm — any storm, no matter how terrible it might be.

In the morning, she did only thing before readying herself for work. She sent Malcolm a text:

 ** _I'm sorry._**

 ** _S x_**

There never came a reply, which, if anything, only made her heart sink all the more. Not that she was expecting one, but a response of any kind — even a _"fuck off"_ — would have been nice. Just to know that he was alright. She was _worried._

She left early in the morning for her entirely too normal (even a bit boring) secretarial job, taking lunch a bit later than normal and walking to her favorite coffeehouse for a light, sweet cuppa and a scone and a little something for her new boss as well. Just to be nice. The man's wife was always baking her chocolate chip biscuits and various other treats. It was the least she could do.

It was when she was leaving that night that something startled her. She found Malcolm out on the stoop, as if he'd been waiting and wondering if he could knock on the office's door. Had her brother given him her work address?

"Malcolm—" She froze, fingers hovering over her coat lapels where she'd been fixing them. "What the fuck are you doing here?" Good god, that man's mouth had rubbed off on her over the years. Among other things — _like his fiery temper._

"I'm sorry, alright?" It was a soft response. Soft and muttered in that Scottish brogue of his, a gentle lilt, something that seemed to have melted her.

She paused before descending the steps onto the cold London street, a hand firmly holding the strap of her purse. "What are you sorry for, exactly? You don't have a single thing to apologize for."

There was something clipped and cold in her tone, a result of hours upon hours of worry and a terrible, sleepless night. His fault, really. _Well,_ and hers.

He wasn't good at this. She could tell. He never had been, though. And standing there, on the street, dressed in a gray suit without a tie, she felt oddly out of place beside him. Casual Malcolm was not something she was used to. Malcolm in a gray prison outfit wasn't… particularly pleasant, either. But this — this was _dangerous_ because her eyes were lingering and she couldn't seem to be able to help herself.

"I'm sorry about last night," he suddenly said on a windy gust of breath. "We shouldn't… I shouldn't… Ye know… Ah, fuck everythin'. I can't seem to say what's on my mind."

For a fleeting moment, they met each other's gazes. He looked as if he may kiss her, she looked as if she may ask him to, but her phone began to ring and she cast a quick glance down towards it.

 _Fuck._

 _Her boss._

"I can't do this right now," she told Malcolm, something in her heart constricted by the realization that they might _never_ do this.

She let her phone go into voicemail, prolonging the agony of whatever was to come on a message. Or perhaps an email. Then she glimpsed Malcolm's way and said, "Whatever you came here to say, maybe… it's just best if you don't. You were right. We should have just pretended last night never happened. We could blame it on exhaustion, never talk about it again." She took a small step closer, awkwardly patting his chest and adding, "But it's a shame, you know. I meant every word that I said to you. I'm just sorry it wasn't enough."

 _I'm sorry I wasn't enough._

The words hung in the air like smoke, eventually dissipating as she turned to go. Her dignity was in tatters and she _didn't_ want him to say one more word about it. Not unless he planned to sweep her off her feet and kiss her. Maybe drag her home and make love to her like he should have last night.

But no — instead, he just let her walk away. That was the problem with Malcolm, wasn't it? He let everyone just _walk away._ That's what ended his marriage all those years ago. He let her just walk away.

And she kept walking.


	4. Chapter 3

It's late at night when he receives the call. He almost doesn't know how to react. He feels worry, concern, _apprehension._ With a clouded expression, he goes sprinting for the door. Once he's slipped into a pair of dress shoes, his regular coat and scarf, he goes trotting down the staircase and ignoring John's curious, troubled shouting. Nothing matters right now, save for making sure she's okay.

She's his only thought.

 _She._

 _The Woman._

It's not twenty minutes later (and twenty of the longest minutes of his life) that he's arriving at her flat. The door's wide open and he finds her in the living room. She's sat in the middle of the floor, hands clutched to her chest.

"Irene," he calls out for her, rushing over to bend down on a knee and examine her. Physically, she's fine. Mentally, he's not sure. He's giving her a once-over. Her heart and lung action are accelerated. Her cheeks are painted a pretty flushed rosy-pink color, suddenly paling as their gazes meet. Dilation of pupils. Glossy forehead and temples. On top of everything, she's having auditory exclusion issues. She can barely hear _anything_ he's saying to her. All signs of a fight-or-flight response to fear, he thinks to himself.

 _She's afraid._

"Tell me what happened," he says suddenly, a hand cupping the back of her head, fingers running through tendrils and tendrils of her hair as he pulls her closer, allowing her cheek to rest against a strong bicep.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she lies and so lies so horribly. "Someone broke into my flat," she explains. "This building and the building across the way have been having break-ins lately. I was so afraid. I thought — I thought it was him."

It dawns on Sherlock then. She thought Moriarty had come for her.

"You're all right," he tells her, voice calm and collected and warm like honey. It's exactly what she needs right now. But that's as "sweet" as he gets. Soon, he rises to his feet in order to examine the deadbolt on her front door. After, he begins to inspect each window and scrutinize every known place of entry (and that even includes the air ducts for the heat and air-conditioning).

She's still sat there, right where he'd left her in the center of her living room. Unable to help himself, he says, "You'll be perfectly fine. I do believe you suffer from a higher level of emotional reactivity, however, which is all too ironic considering your previous line of work, Miss Adler. No wonder you love to "be on top." Best be careful, that could lead to pent-up aggression. Lie down for a while. Relax. Breathe. You'll be fine."

She's rolling her eyes. _Twat,_ she thinks to herself but never says aloud. "I just had my flat broken into," she says, voice stronger now. Infinitely more even as well. _Unwavering._ "I think I'm allowed to be upset, Sherlock."

"As you are," Sherlock fires back, waving a hand in her direction. "Your flat is safe. I do suggest changing the deadbolt, though. Your burglar ripped through it with something iron, it would seem." He's gazing over at her, oblivious to the horror she's feeling. To the way her chest feels as if it's about to collapse. Beneath all the usual courage and bravado, she's only a woman. A frightened woman. One who lives alone.

"Go home, Sherlock," she suddenly tells him. He stops for a moment, startled, eyes glued to her. "What for?" he asks, eyes wide and doe-like.

"Are you always this clueless or do you just 'delete' your how-to's for emotions from that Mind Palace of yours?" she says all too calmly. Her tone frightens him a bit, his hands moving to the coat he plans on shrugging into. "Sometimes," she says, "I just need someone to comfort me. _You're_ bloody human. _I'm_ human. And maybe, just maybe I need you to tell me that it's going to be okay and to hold me for awhile. You could have let me die six months ago. But you didn't. At least it shows that you have a shred of humanity left in you, Sherlock."

All goes silent after she blurts out what she does. He's blown away, really. _Flabbergasted._ Straightening his shoulders, Sherlock goes slipping into his overcoat and donning his scarf once more. "If you're looking for someone to tell you those things, to hold you close, I have to say… you're looking in the wrong place, Irene. You won't find it in me."

He leaves then, turning his back to her and heading briskly down the hall. Almost as a way of escaping. Because he needs to. However, he stops briefly, turning over his shoulder to say, "And you know full well why I saved you. I've never needed to say the words." And just like that, as if he were a wisp of smoke, he's gone.


	5. Chapter 4

It was weeks before she saw him again. Autumn came and settled into London, not unlike the loss of warmth from which her heart had suffered. The sudden change in weather seems to mirror her own conflicting emotions. Sherlock wasn't coming back. She was all but convinced of it.

He'd left her to fend for herself. And truthfully, she knew she shouldn't ask for much else. Now was the time to be the strong, independent woman whom she had once been. The woman she was proud of. The woman she missed. _The Woman._

She was at a café when she saw him again. She'd recognize him anywhere.

Sherlock comes bustling inside, a scarf knotted elegantly around his lily white neck, two hands resting in his coat pockets. He's standing in the queue for a cup of a tea, and perhaps a pastry as well. _He must have just finished a case,_ she thinks, musing to herself.

He spots her whilst stepping up to the counter, brows furrowing and complexion blanching. _Good,_ she thinks to herself. _He's just as shocked._

Her hands enclose her ceramic mug's stem — Earl Grey, as always — and her teeth ensnare her lower brim. She's watching him. She shouldn't but she is. Somewhere between the games they'd played and the way he saved her, she'd fallen in love with him. She's daft and she knows it. _Good job, Irene. You chose to love the one man who's without a heart._

He comes over rather bravely, a cup and saucer in hand. _Nothing else,_ she notes. _He should eat more often._ "Doing some writing, I see," he says rather plainly, taking notice of the tiny netbook that's sat in front of her, right beside her cuppa. "I am," she says, her back suddenly going stiff. "I've needed something to do lately."

"Hm," he comments, although it's more of a hum in response. He's fearful of having a seat across from her, she can see that, and he paces for a moment before finally doing so. "What are you doing?" she asks, a brow rising.

He stares over at her, a huff emitting from him afterward. "I'm having a seat," he tells her quietly. "What does it _look like_ I'm doing?" It's uncomfortable. Uncouth, more than anything. They're not unlike two bumbling numpties and they know it. There's a subtle desire buzzing between them, leaving the air crackling and snapping. Sherlock elects to fall silent, sipping at his tea and keeping his composure.

"You're one for conversation today, aren't you?" Irene chuckles humorlessly before rising to her feet, gathering up her things and leaving before he can say another word. What's the point? He's just making things awkward on purpose now. Sherlock Holmes doesn't know how to acknowledge his feelings. He doesn't know how to deal with human emotions, human desires.

She heads home, laptop bag over her shoulders, elegant fingers wrapped around a Styrofoam mug. It's when she heads into her flat that something feels off. She catches a whiff of L'eau Serge Lutens and a thought suddenly hits her. Someone's been in her flat. She knows who. How on earth could he have found her? Maybe it was Sherlock who was followed. Tailed, so to speak. That must have been how she was discovered. Head up, shoulders squared now, she wanders bravely into her bedroom. _He was here. She knows it._

There's a bouquet of black roses on the mattress, resting gently on the duvet that lies there. There's a card beside it. In all honesty, she's a bit fearful of opening the latter. Knowing James and his schemes he'd probably laced it with anthrax or perhaps something more painful. Something to slowly asphyxiate her, paralyze her. Still, she opens the card. It reads: _I've missed you. JM xx_

All she can do is swallow the lump in her throat. If he wanted her dead, she'd be a crumpled heap on the floor by now. He would have waited for her. He would have done the honors himself. It wasn't something he would have left to his pet — Sebastian Moran. No, he would have enjoyed the kill. But, above all else, he was a client of hers. And he was the only one to ever, _ever_ spend the night in any of her previous flats. In some twisted way, perhaps this was his way of telling her he loved her. That he wouldn't hurt her. That she was off-limits in this game he was playing with Sherlock Holmes. The thought leaves Irene's skin crawling.


	6. Chapter 5

She called him. After all, how _couldn't_ she? This game he was playing as dangerous and she wouldn't make it out alive if he didn't move the chess pieces in the precise, well-planned order.

And Sherlock bloody Holmes, _the Master of Detection,_ didn't have an _ounce_ of information to bestow upon her. In fact, he merely stares at the black, wispy rose bouquet and says, "I'm sorry you've been dragged into this."

Another tick passes before he says, "Or maybe you haven't. Perhaps this is a _sign._ On some level, he harbors feelings for you, Irene. This could be his way of telling you that he won't harm you. That you've been left out of the equation."

There's a note tucked beneath the roses, something that he hadn't noticed before. Reaching for it, careful of what may be inside, he lifts the envelope labeled "SH" to open it.

It reads: _Tell me, Holmes. The laws of physics says that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Yet, electromagnetic waves can. How does physics apply to electromagnetic waves? In short, and I am sorry but I do adore bragging about my superior brilliance, the laws of physics actually say no such thing. The laws of intuition do. And we all know how misleading and inaccurate the laws of intuition are. To be sure, there are some laws of physics that roughly say certain things can't occupy the same space at the same time. Perhaps the cleanest example of this is Pauli's exclusion principle, that says two electrons can't occupy the same state in a molecular orbital. But on close inspection, this principle applies only to certain types of particles. You and I, my friend, are not among those particles. We are not objects. We are electromagnetic waves — full of energy. And you're occupying my city. My **world.** And I want you gone. But Irene will remain off limits. JM x_

Something shocks her then. He looks down-trodden. Not at the note. Not at what James Moriarty has said to him and threatened him about. It's as if the very thought of her sleeping with the man, being with him intimately, causes him pain. He was a client. Sherlock is no fool. Not by any means.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, not knowing what else to say. It hurts her heart to see him this way. It's the closest to ever admitting that he has feelings for her that he'll probably come. And all because Irene is perceptive and a few tricks have allowed her to read another's "mind" through facial observations and reading — an art that would surprise even Mr. Holmes. He would be proud of her.

He pauses, not moving or blinking or even speaking another word. It alarms Irene, of course, but having known him for so long it slowly eases her worries, for he is merely accessing something in that Mind Palace of his — an extreme form to the Method of Loci. One day she swore to try it. Merely for relaxation methods.

She takes a chance then. Only because she may never catch him off-guard like this again. It could be the adrenaline that makes her do it. The fear of seeing Moriarty again.

Stepping closer to him, her eyes on his handsome features, she reaches out to touch his face. A single digit smooths over the warm skin of his jaw, traveling up higher to the patch of skin beneath his eye socket, skimming his cheek in the process. She traces his nose, his lips. His chin is next.

He merely blinks in shock, gaze immediately lowering to her features — as if he's wondering how she suddenly wound up in front of him. He was so lost in his mind. So entirely focused on something else. Most likely something to do with the Professor and the endgame.

"What are you—"

She silences him with a kiss. Something soft and gentle and careful. Something tentative. He has never been kissed before and she would hate to ruin his very first lip-lock. A hand gently cups his jaw, his cheek, a thumb caressing his skin to calm him.

It's so sweet that he finds himself welling up with emotion. Sherlock Holmes can keep the world at bay. But circumstances such as these render him breathless and speechless, rather an oddity for the man. As if her moves are unpredictable and he can't think ahead with her. Not usually, anyway. She is The Woman to him. She didn't gain such a status, such a name, by being boring and calculable.

Finally — finally — his lips begin to return her kiss. He has no earthly idea what he's doing, only what he has witnessed others doing before him, and he goes off of what he knows. What feels right. What seems right to him.

Her lips are warm and pillowy, her scent heady and intoxicating — like lavender and something more, something expensive. All of these thoughts seem to run through The Great Detective's mind. And that's when she seems to crumble for him. All the evenings she'd spent praying he would text her back, all the tense, terse moments between them, all the games. All of it seems to add up right then. And she blossoms for him like a flower in the springtime — willing and elated and happy to do so. Because it's in her nature to love Sherlock Holmes. He is her _equal._

Her lips part for his, two petite hands grappling for something to hold onto — finding his shoulders and grasping for dear life. Similarly, his hands wind their way around her waist. It's a vulnerable thing, a kiss is. She's always been so independent. She's never needed anyone before. Kate, maybe. They came close. But not like she craves Sherlock.

"You drive me mad," she whispers upon drawing away for a gasp of a breath. "And I adore you for it. I must be mad, too."

The only response she's given is a soft, albeit very bewildering smile as Sherlock leans in again to initiate another kiss — this one longer and slower than the last. _A perfect moment in time._


End file.
